Vanity
by Riene
Summary: Christine returns home late, and Erik is predictably in a fine state about it. One-shot, humor and romance, complete. Please read and review.


**A/N—** This is a one-shot short humorous piece, a scene one afternoon in Erik and Christine's relationship.

 **The Usual Disclaimer** —These characters are not mine, belonging as they do to the heirs of M. Leroux, to Sir A. L. Webber and the RUG. I thank them for the privilege of their use. All errors are unfortunately mine, and for that, I do apologize.

Thank you for reading, and please be awesome and leave a review!

Vanity

2016, 2017 by Riene

"Erik, you are as vain as a peacock." Christine folded her arms and glared. They were having a disagreement, an actual tiff. Just like a normal married couple. And over clothing, of all things.

It had started earlier this afternoon. She had come home later than expected, and that always sent him into a panic, which as of late he covered up with a foul mood so she wouldn't see the worry. Mme Fournier, her favorite dressmaker, sent word that she had had a cancellation and the afternoon was unexpectedly clear. Christine had hurried over for a fitting. The new dress was lovely, a dark violet cotton sateen that did things for her eyes and skin, with a lightly-draped bustle, ribbons, embroidered accents, and a delicate fall of lace from the elbow cuffs.

But she had had no way to notify her reclusive husband she would be late, and predictably, he was in a fine state when she arrived back home.

"Where have you been?" he snarled, seizing her arms and running his eyes over her frantically, checking for any injuries or damage, then crushing her to him possessively.

She tipped her head up, kissing his throat and wrapping her arms around him. "I was just at the dressmakers...don't worry, I'm fine."

His arms loosened enough for her to breathe. "What in damnation for? You have plenty of dresses."

She pulled back, looking up at him. "I haven't had a new dress since last winter, love, and it's late spring. Last year's clothing is really quite hopeless."

"Am I not taking good enough care of you?" he growled.

She swept her heavy hair off her neck and tried to soothe him, running her palms over his chest. "You are an angel and you always take wonderful care of me." Maybe she could distract him with a kiss. "Besides," she murmured against his neck, "we can afford it."

But that was definitely the wrong thing to say. Erik stiffened under her hands.

She had taken to managing the family finances soon after they had gotten married. Erik was rather well-off, surprisingly so, for an unemployed man. He saw no need for his wife to fret over money, but Christine had spent too many years with her father and on her own. Cautious by nature, she worried about expenses, but as he sneeringly reminded her, his rent was nil and his food expenses low. The only thing he spent money on was clothing.

And did he.

"Just how many pairs of gloves do you need?" she'd asked in exasperation one day, and he raised an eyebrow. "But my dear, those are a different _color_ of black," he explained, as if it were obvious.

And then there were his embroidered waistcoats. They hung neatly in the wardrobe, but there were so many of them. And pocket squares. Cravats and ties. He had so little to be vain about that she hated bringing any of it up, but here they were...actually arguing.

Erik had never seen his little Swedish angel transform into a spitfire. She took a deep breath.

"Women's clothing changes all the time. I need a new spring dress." She folded her arms.

He flung his hands in the air. "Fripperies and furbelows. Utterly unnecessary. Women's clothing should be more utilitarian."

Christine rolled her eyes. "Please. I remember when we first met you had a hat with ostrich feathers, Erik. Jet beads on your opera cloak. Do not tell me about fripperies."

He glared. "It so happens that they came that way."

She tapped her foot. "What about that utterly hideous Chinese smoking jacket and that silly round hat you used to wear…whatever became of them?"

"The mob must have destroyed them," he snapped. "At any rate, they were warm. Men do not have the options of the vagaries of women's fashions. Leave me my few indulgences."

Christine paused, having a sudden vision of Erik in a bowler hat and wide brown plaid street suit, the kind favored by the young men in the high street. Unfortunately, she was not entirely successful in hiding the smile that rose to her lips, and Erik of course, assumed she was laughing at him. He retired to his study in high dudgeon.

Dinner passed in arctic silence, save for the occasional comment of "Pass the salt." Or "Would you care for the last of the sauce?" After the icily silent clean-up, Erik announced that he would get ready for bed and bathe, if that was not too much self-indulgence for her. He stalked off, still in a temper.

After dinner Christine sat reading by the fire. No matter his mood, Erik thoughtfully laid a fire for her every night, knowing how cold she found the underground house. Tonight was no exception. She stared into the flames, the novel laid aside, wishing she would hear his tentative footsteps behind her and feel his awkward, bony hands on her shoulders, for even after a year of marriage her repressed husband was reluctant to approach her with his own needs, but all was silence. Finally she rose and banked the fire, and went to prepare for bed.

Erik lay in their bed on his side, facing the door and her dressing table, the right side of his face exposed in all its hideous glory. Christine was fairly certain he was feigning sleep. She took a quick bath—her beloved had built a clever device years ago for heating water in his demesne-as it was usually wise to go to sleep as warm as possible. She stepped from the bath chamber, her face rosy pink from the heat, and donned his favorite ruffled gown and robe.

She sat at the dressing table for a long while, combing her long brown curls, feeling the weight of his slitted, glittering eyes on her. When she rose and came to the bed, she saw he had moved over, practically invading her side of the mattress. She would not be able to lie down without touching him. And it was then she saw the unspoken pleas of this proud man lying there, who had learned so early on to never ask, never reveal what he felt, who wrapped his fear in anger to disguise it, but was still risking everything to be there. _Touch me? Do you still want me? Do you still love me?_

Christine slid into bed on his side, scooting over to wrap a possessive arm around his narrow waist and pulled herself close. She felt him shudder, then sigh as she pressed her lips against his protruding shoulder blade under the clean linen of his nightshirt. She curved her supple body around his, holding him close, feeling his chill skin grow warm, and slid up one graceful limb to gently caress his bony foot with her toes, and then her hand stroked upward, grazing fingers along his chest. "Erik," she whispered, "are you awake?"

She heard his breath catch, and then he turned and seized her, pulling her to lie across his chest in one fluid motion. "Don't ever leave me like that again," he choked.

She stroked his ravaged face and lowered her lips to his. "I promise."

He turned them both on their sides and with shaking hands unbuttoned her nightdress to bury his face between her breasts, as she gently stroked his torn back.

Afterward, they lay curled against one another, safe in each other's arms and love. He held her close, his ruined face buried in her hair. "Am I forgiven?" she whispered.

"When," he murmured against her throat, "do I get to see the new dress?"

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~R


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